Padre Figlia
by Marie-Catherine
Summary: The above title is a very rough Italian translation which means father's daughter. I don't want to give anything away, so please read. :) I'm having severe writer's block right now, so chapter 3 might be a little slow in coming...but don't worry, I haven'
1. Default Chapter

It's cold, about mid-autumn. People scurry about in the courtyards of Jefferson Community College. Everyone is in a hurry, except one girl. She sits on a stone wall separating a building and a hedge. Her strawberry blonde hair drifts in the breeze while her pale blue eyes scan the crowd of people walking by. Her frame is small and frail. Her skin is a creamy color flecked with small freckles. She glances at her cheap imitation Rolex and collects her books. She waves a few times to assorted acquaintances on her way through the courtyard, until she enters one of the college's larger buildings. Students line the walls near the classrooms, waiting to be let inside, while others take the opportunity for a make-out session.   
The young girl stops at a lecture room. The number reads 104. The class is Italian Art and Sculpture. She opens the door and is immediately faced by rows of seats, accompanied by tables, escalating downward. She walks further down and takes a seat next to a girl with stringy dark hair and dirty fingernails. The professor is nowhere to be found...yet. The girl takes in the sights around the large room. The walls are painted a light gray color. The carpet is hard and old, a few stains adorning it, more than likely from spilled sodas. There is nothing on the drab gray walls, except a dry erase board on the northern wall. The tables are dark, with maroon seats. The very first row of seats is devoted to the professor's belongings. There are posters of the famous Palazzo Vecchio in Italy, among other things.   
At last they hear the click of the double doors opening. Almost in unison, the students turn their heads to look. Their professor is entering. He's a man of medium height, his hair thinning to the point of baldness. He wears a black silk suit with a gray tie. His expression is blank, conveying nothing. His face, much fuller than the rest of his body, looks like it has been through one plastic surgery, maybe two. He walks slowly down to the front of the classroom with stealth. It seems he is not even trying. His cold eyes scan the young faces, and linger on our strawberry blonde girl. She shifts in her seat nervously, just as the other students around her do, as his lips form a sneer.  
The mysterious professor reaches the front of the room, turns on his heels and faces the students, his hands clasped behind his back. His lips contort into something that scarcely passes as a smile, but it's obvious that this man rarely smiles, if ever. The students are silent. This man before them holds a power, almost as if they are in the palm of his hand. He's not offensive and certainly not ill mannered. He seems studious enough, even likable. But still, the students can't help but be a little apprehensive.  
"Good afternoon. I am Dr. Rhoades," Then, the slightest hint of a smirk. "Your professor."   
  
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It's dark now. The crescent moon casts an ominous glow over the hood of a lone `97 Honda Prelude. The road is deserted and no one hears the loud music generating from the car. Suddenly, the Honda slows it's pace and the young girl dips down to pick up her black 5100 Nokia series phone, which has fallen to the floor from speeding too fast while making turns. She brushes her shoulder length hair aside as she brings the phone to her ear, very capable of driving the vehicle with one hand.  
"Yes, this is Hannah," The strawberry blonde girl answers. "Yes, I'll be there tomorrow. Thank you Sir."   
She hangs up.  
  
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In a small apartment in Arlington, West Virginia, Clarice Starling sits in her worn wing chair, a glass of brandy in one hand. She stares at a blank wall and thinks. Pigeons, mainly deep rollers are on her mind, along with a certain individual...Lecter. Her mind has always been on him it seems. One would think she'd rather be with him than just thinking about him, but Starling never does things the easy way.  
Her memory banks drift back sixteen years ago. She remembers bits and pieces of the certain incident. The stench of pigs, the sharp pain of a bullet piercing her chest, and someone picking her up ever so tenderly and rescuing her. Her benefactor, she would learn later, was none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter. She remembers the night she woke up, dressed in a sleek black dress. That night changed her life in more than one. Looking down now, and placing the glass of brandy on a nearby table, she pushes the neck of her blue cotton shirt down, gently running her fingers over the scar, while reminiscing.  
The front door bursts open, and Hannah rushes in. Her book bag is on, yet she still carries an armful of books. She looks like she's in a massive hurry, rushing passed Starling with only a "Hello Mother" yelled over her shoulder. Then there is a slamming of her bedroom door, and the thud of her books hitting the floor.  
Starling sighs and picks her drink back up. Her daughter, Hannah, is extremely smart. She graduated high school early at sixteen and is attending college. But, they were never very close and Starling often wondered why. She tried, like any good mother would, to get through to her, but nothing seemed to work. Perhaps, subconsciously, the strange events of her birth prevented her from warming up to her mother. She pushes the thoughts of Lecter and Hannah out of her mind and drifts off to a dreamless sleep.  
  
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Hannah lays in bed after saying hello to her mother and stares at the ceiling. Just as her mother, she lays there thinking. Strange, but often thought about questions run through her mind. All her life, her friends had fathers, but she didn't. She envies the little girls she sees spending time with their fathers. She resents the fact that she never had one. Who is he?...she thinks. Her mother never mentions him. It is as if were the Virgin Mary. After a while, Hannah stops asking her mother about the mysterious man who is her father.   
She rolls over on her side and stares at the Blink 182 poster adorning the yellow wall. She blinks her pale blue eyes slowly and still thinks. Did she get her extraordinary artistic talent from him? What about her intelligence, or even her flaring temper? She sighs, still unable to answer those ever-present questions. Perhaps, some day, she'll find him. And if she does, she'll receive the bombshell of a lifetime...  



	2. Padre Figlia Part 2

  
Early morning. Dr. Rhoades prepares for his first lecture of the day...and also a visitor. A very important visitor. He has watched her closely for a very long time, and needless to say, she is his favorite student. He hums a chord from Beethoven's Fur Elise, but not because he is cheerful. But because he is anticipating.  
  
As he sifts through photographs and postcards of Florence, he comes across one that catches his eye. He picks the glossy photo up and observes it. The scene is of a massive marble fountain in winter. Snow rests on the majestic lion in the center, yet no water pours from its mouth, as it should do. The white marble base holds frozen water and a bit of pure white snow. Pure...like Hannah, Dr. Rhoades thinks. He tucks the photograph into his breast pocket and smirks.  
  
To pass the time, he stands at a rather large podium and scans the room with haunted eyes. His mind drifts; conjuring up memories better left in the dark, dank, recesses of his mind. Suddenly, the click of the door closing brings him back to reality. His eyes settle on Hannah, who is wearing a long sleeved sweater, white...like snow.  
  
"Glad to see you could make it...Hannah, is it?" he says coolly.  
  
"Yes. Hannah Starling, Sir," she replies.  
  
Dr. Rhoades lifts an eyebrow. "Starling you say?" As if he hadn't known to begin with.  
  
"Yes Sir."  
  
"You aren't, by any chance, related to CLARICE Starling?" He asks with a slight affectionate emphasis on the name Clarice. Hannah doesn't notice.  
  
"Why, yes Sir. She's my mother," Hannah says, almost robotically, having answered the same question more than once in the course of her life.  
  
"I've heard a great deal about her." He nods. "She had a promising career."  
  
Hannah just nods. She feels uncomfortable talking about her mother, let alone her mother's career.  
  
"So, who is the lucky man she's married?" Dr. Rhoades asks, his head slightly tilted to the right.  
  
Hannah lifts an eyebrow. This man is her professor. She feels she shouldn't be having a conversation like this with him. But there is something oddly familiar about him, so she proceeds with the answer.  
  
"She's not married, nor is she involved with anyone."  
  
He gives a satisfied nod, a look of triumph evident on his face. But Hannah is looking at her Adidas sneakers and doesn't notice. "Ah, I see. By the way, I have something that might be of some interest to you."  
  
Hannah watches as his left hand, which she notices has a scar on the back, gracefully floats over to the fountain photograph in his breast pocket. He hands her the picture and gives her a fake smile, but she doesn't see that either. She is looking at the snow.  
  
"Take it Hannah," Dr. Rhoades says. "It reminds me of you." And your mother, he thinks.  
  
Hannah smiles and does what he says.  
  
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Hannah sits on the back porch of the apartment she and her mother share. The sky is a light blue, and the only thing dotting its eternal stillness are flocks of birds, noisily chirping. Down below, an elderly woman plants pansies around her apartment, which is just below Hannah's.  
  
The wind blows sharply, almost snatching the photo from Hannah's fragile hands. Her pale blue eyes stare at the lion and she thinks. She wonders how that sort of thing could remind Dr. Rhoades of her. And more importantly, why is he talking to her and giving her things? She shrugs her small shoulders. He's just a lonely old man, and I probably remind him of his granddaughter, she thinks. Suddenly, she realizes he isn't such a strange or crazy man after all. She would probably go visit him before class again.  
  
Then, the porch door opens and Starling, in an attempt to bond with her daughter, sits in the chair beside her. Although she is much older than thirty-two, she is still quite attractive. Her red-brown hair shows not even the smallest hint of gray and not a wrinkle betrays her ageing. Her blue eyes are still bright and alert. She crosses her long legs and looks at her daughter's profile, which looks so much like her.  
  
"Hello Mother," Hannah says, without looking up from the picture.  
  
"Hi Hannah," Starling replies, leaning over slightly and looking at the photograph her daughter holds tightly in her hand. She can smell her shampoo. "What's that?"  
  
"It's a fountain, which is on display in Florence." Hannah answers, and then adds. "Dr. Rhoades gave it to me. He's a lonely old man, I think."  
  
Starling looks at her daughter, curiosity forming in her blue eyes. "Who is Dr. Rhoades?"  
  
"My Italian Art and Sculpture professor."  
  
Starling blinks. Art…sculpture…Italian. No, it couldn't be, could it? He must surely be dead by now, she thinks, her heart racing.   
  
"Something wrong?" Hannah asks, turning and looking at her mother for the first time  
  
Starling regains her composure and tries to act as unphased as possible. "No, nothing's wrong. Just some silly thoughts is all."  
  
"Oh, well Dr. Rhoades is just a lonely man, as I said before. He doesn't mean any harm." Hannah says, turning back to her photograph.  
  
No harm, Starling thinks. No harm at all, I'm sure…  
  
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Darkness falls, and Starling feels a slight chill as she lays in bed. Pulling her flowered comforter around her bare shoulders, she closes her eyes trying to keep her thoughts at bay. But she's loosing the battle. Memories seep into her consciousness, as a wound seeps blood, and forces her to remember. And remember she does…  
  
She sees his face, smells him, hears his voice, feels his hands on her. There is a certain longing in her heart, but she doesn't admit it to herself. She WON'T admit it.  
  
"Tell me Clarice…"   
No, she thinks to herself, stop it…  
  
"Would you ever tell me stop…"  
  
Before her memory has a chance to finish the reverie, she opens her eyes and whispers into the stillness of the dark.  
  
"Yes…I would…"  
  
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As Starling lays in her bed, conjuring up memories so does Rhoades, miles and miles away. His room is painted a beige color and on it's walls hang many rare paintings, a few done by the original artist. There is no television present, nor a radio. His made is made of cherry wood, and the headboard was custom carved with the images of horses and lambs. A single bed stand lamp is lit as Rhoades sits at his desk and stares at a oil painting of a landscape, lost in his own memories.  
  
In his mind, he sees three deer leap passed him. A buck and two doe. He hears the soft padding of delicate feet on the earth. He smells the scent of dead leaves and a hint of sweat. HER sweat. He sees her ponytail bounce behind her as she fades from view. I've come halfway around the world, just to see you run…And I've come back again, Clarice…my girl…he thinks, with a smirk.  
  
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The morning comes and Dr. Lecter, better known as Dr. Rhoades is sitting at his desk once again. In his hand he holds a fountain pen he purchased in Florence, and on the desktop is a sheet of thick, off-white stationary. He writes slowly and beautifully, the pen barely touching the surface of the paper.  
  
"Dear Clarice," He begins.  
  
"I have already had the honor of meeting your…or rather, OUR daughter, Hannah. Was it good for you, Clarice? It was for me…"  
  
"I've come back, my girl. And you should expect a visit from me. Or perhaps, YOU will come to ME. I can see you doing just that. Give my love to Hannah, who I am sure knows nothing of me."  
  
"Regards, Hannibal Lecter, M.D."  
  
"P.S-I believe Edgar Lee Masters said it best in his poem, 'William and Emily':  
"That is a power of unison between souls…"  
  
"You can't deny it Clarice."  
  
He sets the pen down and delicately folds the paper, slipping it into the corresponding envelope. Now, all he has to do is wait… 


End file.
